Author
Topic: Darkening Shadows (Read 4883 times)

The four humans at the table got visibly nervous. The face of one of them went white and he began to speak forcefully to the other three. Another began to speak and and pat the air as though to calm him down. The other two looked at each other nervously in doubt.

Laren noted that Winnie kept an ear cocked in their direction trying to hear every bit of the conversation as she waited on the next table. He also noted that Gibble glanced in their direction repeatedly.The outspoken of the four began to rise and the calm one, the leader of the four Laren could safely assume, gripped his arm and offered what appeared to be a word of warning. With a sneer the young man pulled his arm free of the leaders grip and began to head for the stairs to exit the tavern.

Laren was not able to hear anything that the men said through the loud and continuous chatter but he was able to see the leader mouth the words, “You are making a mistake!”

Laren could help but smirk a bit, watching the fear in the Duskshrouds boil over. He stood up and shambled out of the bar behind the upset youth, hoping he'd be able to follow him. He imagined the kid was spooked, and would slow his gait shortly after getting out of eye shot of the establishment.

Luckily it wasn't unusual to see Oscar scurrying along the streets as if he had somewhere important to be. Just then, and odd thought occured to Laren. Wouldn't it be funny if Oscar was really a disguise in the first place? Perhaps he really did have somewhere important to be from time to time? Perhaps there was a reason that Laren's disguise of choice was such a brilliant one?

Yet another thought born out of the moment that Laren filed away for another day.

He chewed the food he'd shoved into his mouth just before leaving, and followed the youth, keeping a safe distance.

Gibble gave Laren the most secretive and subtle sign of good luck in “hawk-speak”, a variation on the cant that many underground organizations used known as “slight-speak”. Slight-speak was a universal tongue so that business could be properly conducted without betraying secrecy. The Order of the Hawk cleverly had changed the signs of some words in common slight-speak to mean other things in hawk-speak in order to confuse and misinform any would be spies.

The angered and nervous young man took many alleyway routes along his journey through the trade and lower class section of Kurr. It was obvious to the Halfling that he was trying to not be tailed, which Laren was doing with profound ease.

Laren soon found himself in a derelict section of the city. The buildings around him were in disrepair and many cobblestones were missing from the street exposing the dirt below. Laundry was strung across the street from one building to another opposite of it. They were fitting decorations to the haggard buildings and the poorer nature of this part of the city. Since he fit right in with the pitiable state of his surroundings, Laren got few looks.

From an advantageous point of empty crates Laren spied the suspected Duskshroud. The ruffian approached a group of three others of a similarly meager means, two humans and a dwarf, in front of a house. Closer examination revealed that they were, in fact, armed but the daggers were cleverly concealed on their forearms. Laren could see that the four spoke briefly and then the one he trailed, slipped through the door and into the house.

Interesting, Laren thought. He assumed the building in which the Dusksroud went was their HQ. Unfortunately, he didn't really know what he'd do with that information, or whether or not it had anything to do with The Eye, or Crimson, or him, or... Anything, really.

He wished he was better at all this. Yes, he had a solid disguise, but he'd never really hatched a plan for what to do once he was invisible. Ashe would have known exactly what to do now. Jarmok would have had a plan. ...His father would have known exactly what to do. Laren push the cloud of melancholy and guilt aside.

Well, at least now he knew where one of the variables in the grand scheme that was Kurr was.

He'd originally gone back to the Half Pint to make sure his disguise was good enough, and he'd confirmed that. Now it was time to answer some questions.

The activity on the street was increasing and Laren knew that lunch was quickly coming to an end for most folks. That routine was a cherished way of life for many Kurrians. The day could be measured by the daily ritual almost as accurately as the placement of Kossuth spanning the sky.

Shortly after Laren began to amble, as only Oscar did, back to his old house for any sort of lead to his search, he heard a deep and gravely voice amidst the afternoon shuffle getting louder as it approached from behind him on the narrow street he walked.

“I canna believe ye be knowin’ this fer weeks an’ ye dinna tell me.” the voice growled. “Yer lucky if’n I don’t kick yer hides from here to tha’ Wildlands ye pack o’ hammerheads.” Laren distinctly heard a pair of heavy boots coming up behind him on his left as a wagon full of barrels rolled, and occasionally bounced, towards him to his left.

The gritty voice Laren heard was now at pace with him. He could see that it belonged to a dwarf accompanied by the goon he trailed from The Half-Pint. Either eager to get past Laren wherein his legs were not swift enough or too caught up in the moment to notice, the wagon rolled by pushing both the dwarf and his lackey into Laren causing all of them to tumble to the ground in an unceremonious heap.

Laren reflexively got his arms up in time to stop himself from smashing face-first into the cobblestone street, and hoped no one saw it, and thought it odd. Oscar wasn't exactly cat-like, after all.

He shuffled to his feet, and dusted himself off, which didn't make him any cleaner. He turned to the wagoner, and shook a fist at him, "Awe, you went and dirtied me trousers!" she said, followed by an outrageous wheezing laugh.

Laren offered a hand to help up the other two. "I ain't seen drivin that bad since the last day I drove!"

The gruff dwarf stood up in a huff bringing his sidekick with him. He was grizzled fellow with a brown beard pulled to a point and held with an iron clasp tie. He wore brown and black patchwork pants and a black and red checkered vest that had seen better days. His boots went up to his knee- which wasn’t too much higher than Larens- and were wrapped tightly with chains. Laren noted that the toes of his boots each had a crown of vicious little spikes. It was apparent as to why Laren had heard the boots of this dwarf earlier. Strapped to the side of each boot was dagger. Perhaps the most striking feature was the dwarf’s missing eye and the scar that creased from the top of his forehead, across his missing eye, down to his neck. As if that wasn’t enough to make someone cringe at first glance, the uncovered eye socket surly would.

The ruffian that was with him could not have been out of his teenage years Laren guessed. He had black hair messily tied back and sparse facial hair. He was wearing brown pants and a green shirt. Judging by the dirt that seemed to be sewn into the fabric and the smell that oozed off of him they hadn’t been washed in weeks. The young man wore leather boots, not nearly as vicious as the dwarfs, that were in disrepair. Strapped to his belt was a dagger with a hilt inlaid with garnets.

The dwarf brushed himself off from the tumble (not that Laren could tell when he was finished) and looked at Laren. His head cocked to one side and studied the disguised Halfling with a slight squint. His face relaxed after a moment and he said, “Me sorries to ye Oscar. Me boy here dunna be knowin’ how to be getting’ outta tha’ way o’ wagons.” The “boy” looked at the dwarf, shoulders shrugged and hands raised, with an incredulous and shocked look on his face. “Yer old bones okay then?” the one-eyed ruffian asked.

Laren was shocked at the familiarity in the old Dwarf's tone, and began to wonder, as he had earlier if perhaps there was more to Oscar than there appeared to be.

Laren leaned in closer to the couple, and let his face go dead cold. He dropped his voice to a dire tone that spoke of pain and death, and said "Don't let it happen again." He planned to watch their reactions in the next two or three seconds, and follow up with another ridiculous belly laugh. If they grew scared, his suspicions would be confirmed, Oscar was known and respected (if not feared) by the ruffians, which COULD mean he'd need a different disguise! If they looked shocked or standoffish, the silly laugh would diffuse the situation, and he'd bid them farewell. ...if everything went right, that is.

The youth looked nervously at his shorter mentor obviously nervous about “Oscar” and anxious as to what the tough street fighter would do. Reflexively he put his hand on the hilt of his dagger, in throwing grip. “Lasher?” he asked.

Saorse “Lasher” MacTeague raised the eyebrow over the empty socket and smirked from the side of his mouth under his good eye. It gave him a comical and twisted look to his face. Laren could see he was calm and not the least bit intimidated. “Ah Oscar! Tha’ be a good one! Getting’ Finkle here all nervous as a gnome about to fight!” Lasher exclaimed in a loud belly laugh.

He slapped Finkle’s hand from his dagger and grabbed him by the shirt collar easily pulling him to his face. “The next time ye be sayin’ me name on the street’ll be the last time ye be seen ten fingers on yer hands. Ye hear me? Ye ain’t exactly in me fine graces right now.” Lasher warned.

Finkle frowned, knowing that he had made a mistake, and simply nodded his understanding of the consequences.

Interesting, Laren thought... Lasher was a name he knew as the leader of the Duskshrouds, and he wasn't afraid of Oscar the way this "Finkle" was. Still though, he was giving off a friendly vibe, perhaps of equality. He wasn't afraid to flex his proverbial muscle on front of Oscar. He was also not apparently bothered that Oscar now knew his real name. He obviously felt that Oscar was either an ally, or simply not a threat.

The panic on Finkle's face was a different story. Either he was afraid of Oscar, or he was just afraid of anyone who stood up to him. Laren suspected it might be a little of both. His hasty retreat from the Pint was clear evidence of the latter.

Laren threw back his head and let to a belly laugh, followed by a deep gasping inhale, and another round of laughter. "I'll be seein ya later master Dwarf! And ye too, there Fribble!" He began walking in the opposite direction he had been, and stopped only to fake a punch at the youth and shout RAA! followed again by his gut clenching laugh. "Ah, the youth! Scared o' me and my muscles!" he flexed at the few who'd gathered and watched. "I'm so strong!! From upwind!!"

He hoped it wasn't too odd, Oscar suddenly walking a different direction, but he wanted to allow the two a moment to get some distance between them before he decided what to do next.

He was intrigued by his notion that Oscar may have some measure of respect among the ruffians of the city, and considered approaching the guards at the door to the presumed hide out and see what he could gather by just standing in front of them and staring blankly... But then, he also imagined Lasher was on his way to the Pint, possibly taking the round of Hawkberry Brandy as an open threat. Since it was on Laren's tab, he figured he should be there, should trouble happen.

With a sigh, he decided to leave this side adventure he'd concocted in his head about Oscar being some kind of king pin, and get back to what was important. Once the two were back under way, he stopped dead in his tracks, made a show of looking around as if he'd just realized where he was, and turned back around in a bit of a hurry. He didn't want to lose sight of MacTeague.

"Have you seen my chicken??" he asked no one in particular. "Here Gerry! Bok! Bok! Buh-GARK! Where's my chicken!?"

As Laren plotted the other way he heard Lasher remark to his protégé, “Ye take care o’ Oscar ‘cuz ye never be knowin’ when ye’ll need his tongue.” At that the heavy boots continued to walk in the direction they were going in before the fall.

Some of the passer-byes shook their heads as they witnessed Laren’s Oscar-mimicking antics and speech. Others openly laughed and commented, not derogatorily, on the strange fellow. In this poorer section of the city folks seemed to be familiar with Oscar. He was by no means the only homeless one on the street but he was the only homeless one that was known for his eccentricities. All the other homeless seemed to blend into the walls and were looked past by many.

Lasher and Finkle plotted their way to The Half-Pint. There was no secrecy in their route and Laren observed the occasional cuff by the perturbed dwarf on the back of Finkle’s head. This was typically followed by a verbal condemming.

As Laren watched the two rogues conversing at the door of the tavern, he realized in his anticipation he was perhaps closer than he should have been and tucked himself in a side street. “Would you like some bread, Oscar?” Laren heard a woman ask. Glancing over he could see that it was Gretta the bread lady. (ref. Once Home Page 3 Post 7)

Gretta went into her sales pitch like as she did with every customer talking about the variety of breads and where the grains came from. She also spoke of the sorts of toppings and finally settled with, “…but you did mention honeybutter and I do have some fine honeybutter to be had. So, set right here…”and she motioned to and empty seat behind her booth, “…and have some water while your bread toasts.”

Gretta quickly cut a thick slice of bread and placed it upon a toasting iron over an oil lamp. As the bread was warming she picked up her cross-stitching and continued to thread the fabric secured in a plate sized hoop.

“Y’know, now that I think of it, that honeybutter there is getting old. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had soured honeybutter but let me tell you, it’ll turn your tummy inside out. I’ll get you a fresh jar.” Gretta explained.

Gretta put down her project and got up and went to back of the booth. As before the back of the booth was placed against the back wall to The Half Pint. As Laren watched her pick through the boxes he noticed the subtle way in which she turned and “bumped” the door loose. Laren knew that it would take an army to open that door if they didn’t know how. The subtle way in which she did could be considered artwork by some.

“Here’s a fresh jar for you and feel free to grab another jar before you leave. I imagine you get hungry on the streets.” The Halfling woman offered. “In fact, get it now so you don’t forget. It’s okay, really. No one will see it to think you’re stealing.” Gretta sat back down on her chair and continued to cross-stitch.

I'm having a little difficult reading into the nuances of what she said. I don't really remember the original introduction Laren had to her... I am pretty sure they'd never actually met, but Gibble said to ask for the honey butter, I believe... But I'm not exactly sure if her reaction was one that she'd give anyone who asked for the honeybutter, or if it's an indication that she understands the question as Laren is asking it.

I made a sense motive check of 17... Does Laren get that *nudge**nudge**wink**wink* feeling from her?

Her sales pitch and actions are her playing every bit the part of your disguise as Oddball Oscar. It's a cover for you in case anyone happens to be watching for whatever reason. Her bumping the secret door open is her allowing you into the Half-Pint and into Gibble's "office" through the secret entrance from the street.